To Someone I Never Knew
When I was small I dreamed when I was big
that all the towels in the bathroom
would be warm and orange,
a giant egg, deeper than a cello's boom
and softer than a violin
would be my only bed,
and in the living room,
the river's edge,
a sycamore, a giant swing, and you,
approaching in a wood canoe.
Yes, you were a giant, too.
I often thought that you were God.
More often I mistook you
for something cruel,
or someone human
and beautiful, yet the sounds
of water, evening, and the loon
have ever brought the thought of you,
my silent love, my long, deep breath,
my child heart's first brush, with death.
(first published in Pivot)